


Cuddle Weather

by coffeeat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddles, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, johnlockcuddle, johnlockcuddles, johnlockfluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeat221b/pseuds/coffeeat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life isn't very fond of John Watson. But Sherlock is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. book cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a book cover I made for this fanfiction.

This is a book cover I made for this fanfiction. I hate the thought of any story going without a cover.  Disclaimer - I do not own this photo or any of the BBC Sherlock characters in this fanfiction.


	2. the bitter mondays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John realizes that life is not very fond of him.

On a horrid Monday evening, the last thing John expects is to be half-naked in a pillow and blanket fort. And cuddling with Sherlock of all things. He stares down at his flatmate’s lax face, reading the dreams flowing underneath his flickering eyes. A slow, sleepy smile forms on Sherlock’s lips before he turns his face and hides it in John’s bare chest. The ex-army doctor releases a soft sigh and pulls the man closer to him, telling himself he’s only doing it to keep his friend warm. But as he smoothes the wild curls down, the shuddering of his heart betrays him.

_No,_ he thinks. He can’t afford to play this game with Sherlock, not with so many things at stake. But even as he tries to convince himself to release the detective and just sleep in his own bed, he feels a deep ache within his chest, a yearning to forget his thoughts and just stay.

So stay he does, pulling Sherlock deeper into his embrace and curling around the sleeping man until he is shielded from the world.

₪₪₪  
 _… earlier this morning …_  
₪₪₪

There are some moments when life decides to throw the most horrible situations in John Watson’s path. Today happens to be one of those days that just seems to get worse with every passing minute. As John shivers in the cold office at work, he decides that he hates Mondays, and nothing can convince him otherwise. He hugs himself, trying to retain as much body heat as possible. According to the scrawled words in his appointment book, his patient should’ve arrived fifteen minutes ago. But the roads are slathered in ice, bloody hunks of frozen snow, and black cabs jammed in crawling lines.

“Bloody snow,” he mutters, a shudder raking through his body. Desperate for warmth, he twists around and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. He tugs it on and yanks the zipper until his exposed neck is covered with the scratchy fabric. For the seventh time this morning, he wishes he had brought a thicker coat.

A sharp rap on the door alerts him.

“Come in,” John calls, straightening in his chair.

The doorknob twists open, and Sarah pokes her head through the crack. “Your patient cancelled her appointment,” she says, a wince crossing her face. “She’s rescheduling for the twelfth of January.”

The doctor slumps in his seat. “I’m not surprised,” he sighs, flipping open his planner. The pencil scratches against the thin page as he marks the new date. “Didn’t expect her to arrive on time in the first place.”

Sarah coughs, a laugh tangled in her throat. “Go home, John,” she says. Her face relaxes in a small smile. “Traffic won’t get any better.”

He glances up at her with a grateful look. “Ta,” he says, trying not to appear eager as he rises to his feet. He begins sliding his belongings into his bag. His face twists in a grimace. “They’re saying it’ll snow tonight.”

The brunette rubs her eye, shaking her head. “Be safe,” is all she says before she eases the door shut, her heels clicking down the hall.

John pulls his phone out of his pocket. It lights up with a glare that sears into his eyes. Ignoring the texts infesting his inbox, he opens up a blank message. His large fingers mash into the tiny keyboard as he writes to Sherlock, _Coming home early._ He hesitates before adding, _Make some tea. I’m freezing my arse off._ His thumb hits the send button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a fill for an LJ prompt, and it turned out better than I anticipated. Hope you'll enjoy reading a fluffy, warm fanfiction, lovelies.


	3. icy fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock refuses to make tea and John returns from the great outdoors.

Sherlock does _not_ make the tea. It has always been John's duty to perform that task, and he doesn't see why he should make any exceptions. After all, sudden drops in temperature are very common in London. The detective has marked today as any other ordinary day. As his fingers balance another slide on the microscope, he is interrupted by the flat door screeching open. A victorious howl of the wind pierces Sherlock's ears, followed by a string of curses from his flatmate. The screams of the world barges in the flat, mixed with the loud honking of cars and the overlapping conversations of Londoners. The door slams shut once again, muffling the noises. 

A tiny shiver disrupts the detective's motionless body. Ignoting John as he enters the kitchen, he peers at the squirming flagella on the slide before him. 

"Sherlock, did you make the tea?"

Hot breath blasts his exposed neck. He turns to see John standing at his side, very close to him. He hums, a questioning tone ringing in the sound.

A sigh escapes the doctor's lips as he lifts a hand to rake through his greying hair. "Did you make tea?" he repeats. 

Sherlock's thoughts trail to the missing cup of tea. He realizes a polite, appropriate reply would be, "I'm sorry, but I didn't make any tea." But Sherlock has no interest in following the social norms, so he doesn't bother to respond. He sticks his eye over the ocular lens, peering at the wriggling germs found in one of his flatmate's snot-slathered tissues. He wonders if he should inform John that his nose is infested with more bacteria than he realizes. But as he toys with the idea, he knows the doctor won't care to know. More importantly, Sherlock will be yelled at for fishing out rubbish from the bin. His lips press together to restrain the words from flying out.

John seems to realize he won't be receiving any answers because he turns away with a shake of his head. "Of course," he huffs. "What was I thinking?"

The words send a strange feeling balling up in the pit of the detective's stomach. He pretends not to listen to the doctor rummaging around in the cupboards, dragging out two mugs and the kettle. The scrape of glass against wood rings in his ears. John's shoes shuffle across the linoleum floor, but a sudden metallic crash drowns out his footsteps. _He dropped the kettle,_ his thoughts inform him. _Cold hands, obviously._ Will his friend object to having his hands warmed? Only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I had to end the chapter right there. I hope you found it to your liking. An update will come tomorrow.


	4. pepper his hands with kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock warms John's frozen hands and indulges in thoughts of sentiment.

Sherlock glances at the doctor, who is standing at the sink and filling up the kettle. Thr gurgle of water hits the metal bottom. He rises from his seat without disturbing the chair, approaching him with silent steps. The tap squeaks in protest as the doctor turns it off. He turns and jumps backwards, almost dropping the kettle again. 

"Cor!" he spits. "Don't _scare_ me like that!"

Sherlock says nothing. He plasters an unblinking stare on him, playing possible reactions in his mind. For a second, he wonders if his idea is any good. He draws back a little, realizing that the doctor is tensing, perhaps even thinking about walking away. _No,_ he thinks. _That won't do._ Before the shorter man can even flinch to move, Sherlock grabs his free hand, sandwiching it in between his own large ones. John jumps a little, and his eyes widen. Shoving a burst of confidence through his veins, Sherlock traps John's short fingers with his own and begins to rub small, firm circles into them. 

The doctor's jaw drops a little. "What . . ." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock moves his face closer to their intertwined fingers. Gentle puffs of hot breath saturate his friend’s skin with moisture. His heart hammers against his chest and bruises his ribs. He forces himself to continue blowing, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising in his cheeks. Once the hand tingles with warmth, he releases it and reaches out for the other one, only to find that it’s occupied with the kettle. Snatching it, he sets it onto the stove to boil. The high, raspy hum of the water echoes from the hollow belly. 

The detective turns back and cradles the remaining hand in his palm. It feels warm to the touch, but he decides to ignore that fact in favor of drawing it close to his face. As his breath ghosts over it, he is hit with the sudden urge to press his lips against it. His imagination floats around in his head, sketching out possible scenes. What would it be like? he wonders. To have John’s worn skin brushing against the soft, pink flesh of his mouth? He can almost feel the calluses and scars, the small blemishes stained with stories that weave together the doctor’s life. For a second, he allows himself to indulge of thoughts weighed down with sentiment. He wants to pepper John’s knuckles with tiny kisses, to melt in the warmth of his fingers. He longs t-

"Sherlock?"

The thoughts melt from the younger man’s mind. He feels John’s heavy gaze upon him, and yet he can’t bring himself to let go of the smaller hand, the hand that is too close to his lips. He trembles at the prospect of closing the distance, the chance sitting right in front of him, ready fo

His fingers release the hand without warning. He watches it fall back to John, limp and warm from his breath. Reining in a sharp breath, he turns on his heel and ignores the questioning gaze of the doctor. The inquisitive stare follows him all the way back to his seat at the kitchen table. He fiddles with the microscope’s focus knob. But his senses remain open to the man a few feet away from him. How can he divert his attention back to science as if nothing happened?

 _Not when I was so damn close to kissing his hand,_ Sherlock thinks. A mental shudder rakes through his thoughts. He is brought back to reality by the creaking floorboards. His ears listen to John’s footsteps retreat from the kitchen. They fade deeper into the flat, leaving him with a head of boiling thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they hold hands. Yes, John leaves because who wouldn't be overwhelmed? Such sexual tension. xx


	5. the wrath of the closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the closet attacks John and Sherlock helps him build a fire.

John is dozing off in his armchair when a loud clatter jerks him back into consciousness. He blinks a few times and pulls his arms back into a luxurious stretch, unaware of the detective running an appreciative eye over his body. His eyebrows lower in a frown as he sits up in his seat, ears straining for another noise. He is rewarded with a metallic groan echoing from the belly of the heater, as if it's eaten something that doesn't agree with its stomach.

"Funny," the doctor says before a violent rattling ensues. It grows louder, steadily increasing in volume until he winces. An abrupt hiss slices through the air, causing him to flinch. "Is that even normal?" he says, raising his voice over loud moans.

Stretched out on the couch on his back, Sherlock rolls over onto his side without a word. He curls up into himself, the curve of his spine seeming to taunt John. _I can't be bothered to deal with idiots like you,_ it sneers. The doctor shakes his head, shooting a weak glare at his flatmate before taking hesitant steps towards the heater. A metallic scent stings his nostrils, causing his nose to wrinkle.

"Do you smell that?" John questions the detective, not expecting a response. He leans closer to the heater, only to jump when it belches before falling silent. His eyes narrow at it. Stretching out a hand, he lets his fingers hover above the slits in the machine. No heat pulses from them. He tosses a glance towards the controls, but they remain untouched.

And that’s when the realization slaps him in the face.

"Oh, _shit_ ," the doctor groans and kicks the dead machine. The only reply he receives is the rustle of fabric as Sherlock shifts around in his position. John whirls around to face his friend, his jaw clenching. "Well?" he says. "Our heater just broke." Raking his hands through his hair, he plops back in his armchair and shakes his head. “And it’s snowing!” 

Sherlock twists around to shoot him a look bristling with annoyance. "Are you finished stating the obvious?" he snaps. "Or will you be our announcer for the rest of the evening?"

John stares at his friend, a scoff flying from his mouth. "Really?" he says. "Our heater _broke_ and you're -" He slumps back in the soft cushions. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, hard enough for it to start throbbing in pain.

"Again, you're stating the obvious," the other male says, appearing unmoved by the fact that they have no heat. 

The doctor ignores him, deciding he has better things to do than argue with his flatmate. "I'll be building a fire," he says, heaving himself up from his seat, "so we don't _freeze_ our balls off. You interested in joining me?" The lump on the sofa huffs. "Fine," John snaps before storming off to find a starter log for the fireplace.

₪₪₪

The boxes of starter logs decide to hide from John as he turns the flat upside down while rummaging around in the rooms for it. In the end, he finds one tucked away in the back of the storage closet, where Sherlock's abandoned science equipment rests. It's buried underneath a pile of heavy junk that he has to lug away, an exercise that leaves him panting. When he staggers onto his feet with the box in his arms, he bangs his head on a shelf and upsets a delicate balance of items. A flood of objects tumbles down upon him, the closet pouring its wrath upon him for disrupting its silence. How _dare_ he disturb the gentle weaving of spiderwebs? How _could_ he shift around its contents when they've remained still for months?

John cannot defend himself against this mighty attack. He drops the box of starter logs with a cry and buries his head in his arms, dropping down onto the floor. Buds of pain sprout in his skull, blossoming into sharp spikes drilling into his nerves. The dark walls surrounding him appear to sneer at his helpless form. After the last few items clatter to the floor, he hesitates before unfolding his limbs. But a fat duvet slips off of the shelf and lands on his head, draping over his face like a conqueror’s flag.

The fireplace treats John no better. He is forced to kneel on the hard floor, the wooden boards digging into his aching knees. The starter logs sit into the jaws of the firebox, buried underneath other heavy chunks of wood. He strikes a match against side of the white box, the head bursting into a flame. Before he can light the wood, a sudden blast of cold breath blows out the small bit of fire. 

"Hey!" John protests, jerking his head to see a frowning Sherlock kneeling next to him.

The man yanks the starter logs out of the firebox, dislodging the pile. "You're supposed to use one," he informs him, snapping off a piece of the wood and jamming it back underneath the other logs. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought."

"Shut up," the doctor mutters, heat flaring in his cheeks. He lights another match and holds it towards the fireplace. His eyes watch the flame crawl onto the wood and lick at it before sinking in, releasing a content crack. It's only when his attention leaves the spreading hue of orange that he realizes how close he is to the other male. Sherlock's knee is jammed against the side of his thigh. Their shoulders are pressed together as if they are puzzle pieces, formed to be locked into one. He can feel his warm breath stirring the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. An involuntary shiver spirals up his spine. 

John clears his throat. “I … uh.” He nods towards the dead match and the box. “I’d better get rid of these,” he mumbles, detaching himself from the detective’s side and hurries towards the kitchen’s trashcan. He hopes that his face isn’t painted with a loud shade of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, the closet wins the fight. Because closets are awesome places to launch attacks, and a tired!John is no match for it.


	6. the faintest smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John becomes a human pillow.

In a fit of incurable boredom, Sherlock releases control of his body and lets his balance slip. With limp limbs unable to support his weight, he ends up plopping onto his side on the carpet. The rough fibers dig into his cheek as he stares at the squirming flames in the firebox. A loud crackle causes a few orange sparks to float in the air. He closes his eyes as the heat stains his face, warming up his stiff muscles. The floor pokes him hard in the bones.

Approaching footsteps catch his attention. He sees the short legs drawing closer, the soft fabric fluttering with the older man’s movements. His gaze trails up to John’s face. The content look tenses on his facial muscles when he catches a mixture of amusement and fondness melting in the blond’s eyes.

“I saw that look,” John teases him. He is holding a plate of biscuits and a mug of tea. He shuffles closer before settling on the floor beside Sherlock. “You like the fire.” He stretches out his legs towards the twirling flames, his bare toes flexing in appreciation.

The detective chooses not to reply, tucking in his legs to give the blogger more room to sit. John sets down the mug and pushes it closer to Sherlock’s neck, saying, “This might keep you warm.”

Sherlock accepts the offering, tucking it underneath his chin. The heat from the tea nuzzles into his exposed skin.

John snaps a biscuit in half. “C’mon, Sherlock,” he urges him, waving the bit of food in his face as if he is a dog. “Eat something.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and snaps up the tidbit, the tip of his tongue grazing the fingers. His mind is sent reeling as a faint trace of wood and salt explodes in his taste buds. John’s taste. His friend’s breath hitches, and the detective almost chokes. Quickly swallowing, he closes his eyes and tries to fight a deep blush crawling up his neck.

John jerks his hand back and stuffs a biscuit into his own mouth.

After a few minutes of silence and John’s dry crunching, Sherlock is beginning to ache from the hard floor. Unfortunately, the couch is too far away from the fire, and he feels too lazy to haul himself into the nearest armchair. His attention flickers to John, who stares into the fire and remains oblivious to the detective’s thoughts. He’ll make a nice pillow, Sherlock decides. He shifts over and plops his head into his lap without another thought. His lungs rein in a breath of the doctor’s scent. His nose is filled with faint traces of wood, smoke, and cologne trapped in the fibers of his clothing. He tries to catalogue all the sensations washing over him as fast as he can. The softness of John’s jumper, his thighs giving way underneath the weight of his heavy skull, the heat pounding through the air and seepi -

His thoughts freeze when a hand rests on top of his head. He tenses and waits for it to shove him from the lap, quickly closing his eyes and hiding from John’s face. He can’t bear to look into his friend’s eyes and see disgust pounding behind the clear, blue pools. But when he feels fingers weaving through his curls, a choked gasp rises in his throat. His mind stutters. This isn't the reaction he has prepared himself for. The movements are meant to be gentle and soothing, but a wince crosses Sherlock’s face. Every touch seems to sear through his scalp and drill deep into his skull. His muscles tense with every stroke. He wants to arch his back in pleasure. He longs to press closer to John while squirming away from him at the same time. He doesn’t deserve such a man in his life. He can’t be allowed to fall in love with him.

Before Sherlock can stop it, a noise of pleasure breaks out from his mouth and betrays his emotions. A gentle chuckle floats through the air. His eyes slide open, reluctant to be exposed to the open air. At first, he can see nothing but flashes of orange shadows dancing along the carpet. But soon, his vision is filled with John. His John. The doctor’s face has relaxed. His lips are curled up in a smile - not the breathless, excited one after chasing a murderer. Not the one that stretches across his mouth so hard that it hurts his cheeks. Not the one that is bold and wide enough to leave the corners of his eyes crinkling. It’s something softer and tender, almost faint. It’s a smile reserved for Sherlock and only Sherlock.

The detective's tight body begins to uncoil at the sight of clear fondness and affection written on his blogger's face. His shoulders slump as he lets down his guard, inch by inch. The light fingers in his hair coax him to relax until he yields to the hand and allows it to stroke him into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fluff. All is fluff.


	7. the strangest ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an idea is formed.

As evening drags into the dark folds of the night, the flat grows colder. Soon, the crackling flames do little to help keep the men warm. Sherlock begins trembling underneath John's gentle fingers. Quivers run through his body as he presses closer to him until his face is hidden in his stomach. The doctor blinks in surprise, concerning flashing across his eyes.

“I’ll be back,” he tells Sherlock, pushing him off of his lap with gentle hands. Hurrying towards their rooms, he rips their duvets from their beds. His arms hug the thick layers to his chest, a strange mixture of their scents filling his nose. His chest tightens at the familiar smells.

He returns to find a shivering Sherlock curled up in a tight ball, almost pressed against the screen of the fireplace. His eyes widen. “Sherlock?” he breathes, rushing towards him. A shudder rakes through the detective. “I’m fine.” “Liar.” 

Kneeling on the carpet, John wraps the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. He nudges him even closer to the fire, hoping that the waves of heat will reach him. But the tremors continue raking through his body. The older man’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he runs through a list of his choices. The one that stands out the most is body heat. He hesitates before deciding to slide it at the bottom of his options. His thoughts flicker to his early memories, desperate for methods to gain warmth. _What is the most comfortable way?_ he wonders, pecking at his head for ideas. _The fastest and most efficient?_ After flipping through a few, faded scenes of his childhood, his attention fixes upon two words: blanket forts.

The doctor blinks a few times before a grin stretches across his face. _Of course! Why didn't I think of that before?_ He remembers stretching blankets across chairs with Harry and filling up the gaps with a sea of pillows. It had been their way of coping with the cold weather after hours of romping outside in the snow. A shuddering breath from Sherlock interrupts his thoughts.

"What are you so happy about?" the younger man grumbles, twisting his head around to narrow his eyes at him.

His grin only widens. “I’ve got an idea,” John blurts out, jumping up onto his feet. “I’ll be back.” Before the detective can shoot out a deduction, he darts off and crashes up the stairs towards his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Of course!_ John thinks. _Why didn't I think of that before?_
> 
> "Because you're an idiot," the Sherlock in his mind says.
> 
> ₪₪₪
> 
> John has an idea, and we'll see if Sherlock likes it or not in the next chapter. An update will come tomorrow since this one was short.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated because they warm my heart (and I'll write more fluff instead of breaking people's feels with death and tears - just kidding . . . maybe).


	8. blanket forts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a challenge is accepted.

Wrapped in his fluffy duvet, Sherlock watches as John runs up and down the stairs, dragging down duvets and pillows. As John rushes into the kitchen, the younger man stares at the pile of warmth and soft comforters next to him. The screech of wooden legs against the floor alerts him. He glances up as John hauls two chairs into the living room. Sherlock’s eyes flicker back to the blankets, and something clicks in his head. “No,” Sherlock says. John pauses in the middle of setting up the chairs by the fire. “What?” he says. “It’s childish and idiotic,” he protests, glaring at the pillows. His foot lashes out to kick one away from him. It bounces onto the carpet, landing close to the fireplace. 

The doctor frowns at him for a few seconds, trying to comprehend his words. Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the chairs. "A blanket-and-pillow fort," he says in a clipped tone. "How old are you?" His face twists in patronizing look, but the severity of it is lost by the trembling of his body.

John chokes out a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Oh, _that_ ," he says. He bends over to wrap another duvet around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Yes, that." A scowl unfolds on the detective's face, but he accepts the additional layer of warmth. His hands draw it tighter around his shivering body. He wraps it around his head until only a pair of glittering eyes and the hint of a nose can be seen. "I refuse to participate in such a ridiculous activity," he says, voice muffled as he retreats deeper into his cocoon of warmth.

"No one's asking you to," John says. "Besides, you probably wouldn't know what to do." He busies himself with draping the blankets over the tops of the chairs to form a roof. He can't help but sneak a glance over to his friend.

The glittering eyes have widened in surprise. They soon narrow at John before a faint voice trickles out from the thick layers. "Baiting me won't work."

The blond raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I guess you're not smart enough to build a fort," he says, a challenging tone rising in his voice.

A heavy silence smacks the flat. He sees a slight tremor in the cocoon before it stills. After a few seconds, it returns, increasing in strength until the entire body is bristling with irritation. The blankets are flung off in a fury, and long limbs blast out into freedom. A furious detective explodes onto his feet to scoop up an armful of pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still more one more update to arrive. The sun will rise tomorrow, and with it shall come the end. xx


	9. the best type of warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the detective and his doctor forget about the world around them.

Fifteen minutes later, John is huddled in the corner of the fort, seeking refuge from his flatmate's heavy rant about the insecure structure of the heater. He has given up hopes of attempting to understand and settles for staring at the flickering flames. 

"I don't understand why companies are hiring idiots," Sherlock seethes, his jaw clenched. His fingers grip the corners of his blanket, tugging at the fibers and rubbing it in agitation. "If they'd ju -"

" _Okay,_ Sherlock!" John snaps. His eyes widen in frustration before he shakes his head. Guilt flies in to nibble at the edges of his anger. With slumping shoulders, he buries his face in his hands. "Sorry," he says. "I know you're cold."

A thick silence stretches in between the two men. John releases a sigh and rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Despite their best efforts to stay warm, the flat’s temperature plunges lower in the numbers as the evening drags on. The cold has seeped past his skin and settled in his bones, leaving a dull ache embedded inside his body. He releases a huff. A mouthful of clouds float out of his mouth. He blinks at the sight. He watches his breath melt into the air before he releases another. _God,_ he thinks. _We're going to freeze to death._ His gaze swings over to Sherlock, and his lips twitch in a smile. The detective is releasing a steady stream of breath vapor, an eyebrow raised at the sight. It soon drops when his nose wrinkles in delicate distaste. John's mouth stretches into an irrepressible smile, a strangled laugh wriggling out of his throat. 

"You look like a dragon," the doctor says, eyes shining with mirth.

Sherlock shoots a frown in his direction. "Don't be silly, John," he says with a reprimanding tone. 

His shoulders lift up in a shrug as he stretches out onto his side. "Looks like smoke to me," he says before curling up into a tight ball. 

The younger man rolls his eyes. "You're merely seeing the condensed, water vapor droplets in my breath," he sniffs, his words jamming into each other as he scrambles to explain the world of science to the doctor. "It's a simple process that you should be able to understand."

John remains quiet for a few seconds, his eyes traveling back to the flickering flames. Sometimes, he has to pause and wonder if Sherlock does have an imagination shoved in that massive head of his. The facts and knowledge stored in his mind are impressive, but what use are they if he can't use them to enjoy life? On some days, he stops to think about the detective's past life, his thoughts stretching all the way back to his mysterious childhood. _What was Sherlock like as a child?_ he often asks himself. Mycroft sometimes lets tiny tidbits of memories slip free, and he hears the occasional confirmation from Sherlock. But still, he knows very little. 

He wriggles himself free from his thoughts and melts back into reality. "Way to ruin the fun," he tells Sherlock, a teasing tone embedded in his words. His gaze isn't resting upon him, but he is certain that the detective appears annoyed.

"It's science," his flatmate snorts, irritation pricking in his voice. 

John is certain he can detect a faint trace of fondness, hidden underneath the layer of disdain. A soft sigh fills his ears, quivering near the end. He tosses a glance at Sherlock in time to see him tug the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His eyes flicker to the watch embracing his wrist. The slender hands point at the elegant numbers, telling him it is almost past nine. If the flat already feels this cold, he can’t imagine what the rest of the night will feel like.

An idea pokes John in the head and captures his attention. _Body heat,_ it hisses. He ducks away from it. 

_No,_ the doctor thinks. _There has to be another way._

The idea wriggles into his ear and slams into his eardrum. _Body heat!_ it screams. 

_Look at Sherlock, you idiot,_ his mind snaps, jerking his attention towards his flatmate. The involuntary tremors are beginning to shake his body once more. _I'm certain that the embarrassment is worth it._

He cringes as guilt coils around his intestines and twists them. It’s a heavy weight in his stomach, threatening to rip past the flesh and sprawl out from his skin. He turns to his thoughts for help, but they're all nudging him in the same direction. _Oi!_ they cry, shaking their fists and turning his face towards his shivering flatmate. _To Sherlock, soldier!_

Something flares in his chest. A sickening fondness seeps from the inner walls of his abdomen. The longer his eyes rest upon Sherlock, the thicker it grows. His soft gaze traces the plush lips, running along the elegant curves of the sharp cheekbones begging for attention. An irrepressible heat builds up in his cheeks until he is forced to drop his stare. 

_I'll starve it out,_ the doctor suddenly decides. Yes - starving out the idea. Letting the long stretches of time strip it of its strength until nothing but a bitter, dry skeleton remains. He is certain that Sherlock will be able to give off enough body heat to survive, and -

What is he thinking? The sheer will of the detective is useless against the raging, biting chills of the cruel weather. _Idiot,_ he reprimands himself. _You're such an idiot._ He bites his lip before he dumps his pride and gives into the doctoral side of him. “Sod it,” he says, shoving his blanket off of his body. Ignoring the detective’s curious look, he grabs the hem of his jumper. As he tugs it over his head, a strangled squawk of surprise erupts from Sherlock.

“C’mon,” John says, trying not to squirm as the detective rakes his wide eyes over his shirtless form.

Sherlock swallows. His fingers pluck at the small buttons of his shirt, worming them free from the tiny holes. Squirming out of his button up, he lets it fall from his shoulders and onto the sea of pillows.

"Lie down," John instructs him. 

The air is filled with the rustling of fabric before both men settle on their sides, facing each other. A strip of space remains in between them. An awkward, tense silence ensues as the two remain uncertain of the next step. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the fact that his flatmate is topless. His chest is beginning to tighten, as well as a certain part of him he doesn’t want to think about. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea, he thinks. But the thought vanishes from his head when Sherlock shifts forward and crosses the narrow distance in between them. Warmth explodes in his body as the taller, leaner form presses against him. He wraps his arms around John, pulling him close against his chest.

John pauses before embracing him as well, burying his face in the long, elegant neck. He inhales the soft scent, basking in the fading smell of his shampoo and a hint of his cologne. Releasing a faint sound of pleasure, he lets his nose slide down until it rests on the solid collarbone. But the body tenses underneath his ministrations, the muscles growing taut. John freezes before shame sweeps over his cheeks.

"Sorry," the ex-soldier murmurs, wincing as his words flutter against the pallid skin. He moves to pull back.

But a large hand flies up and cradles the back of his head. John falls still, allowing the fingers to guide him back towards the neck until his face is pressed against the collarbone once more. John releases a gentle sigh, and the detective relaxes until he has melted in the doctor’s arms. Their legs tangle together. Sherlock’s nose buries in the golden, short hair, tracing the scalp and leaving tingles in its wake. John’s ears are filled with a rough inhalation before a content noise rumbles from the pale throat. The vibrations ripple against his face and leave a shy splash of pink across his cheeks.

John lets his eyes slip shut. "Feels nice?" he asks, soaking in the darkness behind his eyelids.

A gentle hum rises in the quiet flat before strong arms pull him closer. 

"Yeah?" John says. A light chuckle escapes his mouth and floats in the air. "You're welcome, you _bloody_ git." He hears a huff before a pair of lips brush against his temple, slow and hesitant. He remains motionless in the embrace, allowing the soft flesh to remain on his skin. After a few seconds, it leaves with a puff of warm breath, a silent promise of more tender moments like this to come. 

The detective and his doctor soak in each other's warmth, trying to ignore the unnatural heat pooling in both of their chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end has come. I hope you enjoyed reading this fanfiction. Kudos and comments would be lovely, if you wouldn't mind taking a few seconds to do either or both. xx But either way, I appreciate the fact that you took the time to read this.
> 
>  
> 
> _Johnlock forever!_


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